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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054324">weak knees; don't go</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderGreen/pseuds/limerence'>limerence (lavenderGreen)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Friends to Lovers, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, a winning combination, apparently this is an au where no high schooler has ever gotten drunk or high, bc i didn't feel like it, dream: down bad, dubious medical knowledge, george: stupid, gross misrepresentations of texas geography, just guys being dudes, more awful metaphors from yours truly, this group of characters is called...dream team and my other favorites, unnecessarily convoluted familial backstory for george...my trademark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:48:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,832</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054324</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderGreen/pseuds/limerence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Depending on how you look at it, it is either entirely Clay’s fault that George’s jaw is broken, or he had nothing to do with it at all. </p><p>--- </p><p>or: it's the summer after high school and George is the exception to everything in Clay's life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexis | Quackity &amp; Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound, Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>MCYT</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>weak knees; don't go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>fic title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FsDSIEq7O08">no shows</a> by gerard way</p><p>okay, so before you read this you have to know that any "why" questions you have can be answered either by "because i thought it would be fun" or "i just didn't feel like it". this fic was simultaneously incredibly self-indulgent yet so horribly difficult to write...i'm just glad that it's finally up :')</p><p>disclaimers: this is not at all based on reality, and i do not know any of the content creators depicted within this piece of fiction. if any of them express discomfort with having fanfiction written about them, i will respect their boundaries. please do not share this with any of the ccs mentioned here. thanks :) </p><p>if you want to put this on any fic rec lists or whatever, let me know on my <a href="https://limerencewastaken.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>!! alternatively, come chat there with me, i'm always open to asks and dms :DD </p><p>also, tw for a few s*icide-related jokes--check endnotes for more details. these are completely figurative and lighthearted, of course, but if it might affect you in any way then please make sure you stay safe. </p><p>ok that should be it!! enjoy &lt;333</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Depending on how you look at it, it is either entirely because of Clay that George’s jaw is broken, or he had nothing to do with it at all. Clay is personally more inclined to go with the latter--technically, he just happened to be a witness, right? And besides, he was the one to call the ambulance, to stay with George and make sure he was alive and everything else. That has to absolve him from some responsibility. Case closed. </p><p>It’s clear that George sees things slightly differently. </p><p><em>THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT</em>. He brandishes his dinky little hospital notepad in Clay’s face, the moment he steps out of Wilbur’s mom’s minivan and sees him sitting out on the porch step. He slams the passenger door shut.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, so maybe Clay should’ve realized that Fannett Hill is a little steeper than it really looks, and maybe he should’ve thought about that before double-dog-daring George to go down the whole thing lying on his stomach on Clay’s old skateboard. And then, also, maybe he should’ve remembered that the reason why he doesn’t skate anymore is because his board has a rickety wheel on it that he never really got around to fixing. </p><p>As it were, all of this only comes rushing back when, mid-cheer, he watches in horror as George careens off-course and hits the curb at top speed, only to keep flying downhill on three wheels. Both of them are screaming when he finally stops himself on a nearby fire hydrant. Using his face. </p><p> </p><p>“How was the hospital?” Clay asks, nervously clutching at the Shake Shack bag in his lap. </p><p><em>I HOPE YOU CHOKE</em>, George writes in big, jagged letters. His hair, frazzled and unwashed, sticks out from the edges of his bandages, wrapped around his face to secure his jaw in place. The entire left side of his face is one blackened, swollen bruise. </p><p>“George--” Clay says desperately, only to be cut off by him ripping the page out viciously, before stomping past to the front door. “C’mon, I’m sorry, I really am.” </p><p>Wilbur hops out of the driver’s seat. "Are you sure?" </p><p>He turns, takeout in one hand and George's crumpled notepaper in the other. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”  </p><p>“That’s not what I’ve been hearing,” Wilbur says, monotone. </p><p><em>Fucking liar</em>, George writes. </p><p>He turns and tries harder to open the door before Wilbur shoves past with the key. “Slow down, hotshot.” </p><p>George punches him, but his rail-thin arms are loose and noodly from the painkillers, so there isn’t any follow-through. When the door is open, Clay scrambles after the two of them. He says, “It can’t be that bad, right?” </p><p>George rolls his eyes and bares his teeth at Clay, who recoils out of some caveman instinct. But of course, all George is doing is showing him that his jaw’s been wired shut. </p><p>Clay pulls a sopping vanilla smoothie out of the bag, offers it with a grimace. “I’m sorry? I got you a milkshake.” </p><p>“Oh, at least he got you a milkshake,” Wilbur mocks from the kitchen.</p><p>George glares at Clay hard enough that the cut in his eyebrow splits again, but he hunches forward gently when Clay holds out the straw to him, clutching the rest of his takeout under one arm. So there’s that, at least. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh my god,” Tommy says when he gets home from summer school because he's a dumbass who failed eighth-grade math last year. “I mean, Wilbur, I guess we did always sort of think that Clay was capable of great violence.” </p><p>“Isn’t it so cursed?” Wilbur says, delighted. He turns to George, sitting next to him on the couch, “How is it that we leave you two unsupervised for once, and he manages to break your entire face?” </p><p>“Shut up,” Clay complains from where he’s been exiled to the floor. “I didn’t even <em>do</em> anything!” </p><p>George writes something furiously in his notebook and shows it to Wilbur, who snorts. </p><p>“You really have the shittest taste in guys,” Wilbur says quietly. Quiet enough that Clay thinks he wasn’t supposed to have heard it. George says nothing else, writes nothing else, just huffs out a sigh. Next to Clay, his socked feet twitch restlessly.</p><p> </p><p>“Dude,” Nick says over the phone, tinny and warped because of how he’s calling from basketball camp up in Syracuse. “You did <em>what</em>? Your old skateboard? Dude.” </p><p>“I know,” Clay says, agonized. He shakes off the worst of the dripping condensation off his milkshake and holds it up to shield his eyes from the setting sun. </p><p>“Wait, so...you get him alone for the first time ever...and instead of, like, asking him to put his tongue down your throat, you make him go face-first down a hill?” </p><p>“I didn’t <em>make</em> him do anything--” </p><p>“<em>And </em>he had his phone in his pocket.” </p><p>“We were having fun, I don’t know.” </p><p>“<em>Dude</em>,” Nick says again, with feeling. “I mean…how’s George holding up?” </p><p>“He’s doing okay. He has to eat out of a straw until August, but, you know. He’ll be fine.” </p><p>“Well, there’s that, at least.” </p><p>“What do I do?” Clay asks like he really thinks that Nick, of all people, might know the answer. </p><p>“I guess...just give him time?.”</p><p>“Right,” Clay sighs. “I miss you, dude.” </p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” From the other end of the call is a rhythmic swishing noise, like the sound of someone in a windbreaker, far too thin for nights up north, jogging in place. "Shit. Why the hell is it this cold at the beginning of July? I have to hang up soon, man, I’m gonna freeze out here.”</p><p>Clay walks, silent. His flip-flops scrape against the pavement. The condensation seeps past his wrist, down to the point of his elbow. </p><p>Nick says, “Just chill out and be nice about it. I promise that George won’t hold it against you. You <em>will</em> have to wait on his hand and foot for a bit, though.” </p><p>“I’d do that anyway,” Clay says absently. He smiles to himself when Nick retches. </p><p> </p><p>Clay likes to think that he’s pretty smart. He did well in high school, did all the nerdshit extracurriculars--SciOly, student government, debate club with the Asian-Americans, all that. He’s got a great college to look forward to come September, and like--the general point is that he’s no slouch. </p><p>But for whatever goddamn reason, he realizes on the walk back to his own house with a half-melted Oreo shake in one hand, George is the exception to his smart-kid brain. Laughing too loud at jokes that Clay <em>knows</em> aren’t funny, tripping over his own feet to his car when George calls shotgun, feeling the continual urge to spill his guts to <em>Nick</em> of all people. Best of all, the first time they’ve ever hung out alone since George showed up in Clay’s life, answering Wilbur’s front door six or seven months ago, Clay double-dog-dares him to go face-first down a hill on a broken skateboard. </p><p>Way to blow it, idiot. </p><p>The milkshake tastes like shit. He doesn’t even<em> like</em> the Oreo shake, but he’d given the vanilla one to George without a second thought. </p><p> </p><p>So then, Clay doesn’t see George for the rest of the week. It’s fine. </p><p>He spends his time at work at the one gas station at county limits, mopping the floors when he feels like they need it and trying to produce a sketch of his manager’s face from memory on the back of discarded receipts, based on the singular time he actually showed up to work, when he hired Clay back in April. On Friday and Saturday, his days off, he wakes up in the middle of the afternoon with Patches lying on his face, and then he comments “cringe” under Nick’s Instagram over and over again. Over dinner, his sister makes fun of him as he scrolls back through his and George’s chatlog under the table, sighing to himself over just how well they got along. </p><p>He tries not to take it personally--George is just convalescing, after all. He took a pretty hard fall, and he probably has to sit around all day drinking chicken soup with nothing else in it. Clay knows this, but he thinks about George, ringing up a pack of cigarettes and a Gatorade while he’s at work. He thinks about George as he tunes into the Christian rock station on the drive home. When the setting sun makes it look like the whole world is on fire, still he thinks about George. </p><p>Then, on the following Monday, he answers a call to complete silence.</p><p>“Hello?” Clay asks tentatively because he likes to tempt fate, apparently. </p><p>There’s some shuffling on the other end, then <em>what are you--oh, okay--</em> </p><p>“Hello, bitch,” Tommy says, voice grating. </p><p>“Oh jeez, not you,” Clay says. He settles against the counter. “What’s up?” </p><p>“George is here. He says--'take me to the mall.'” Tommy reads aloud, “‘I need another phone after you made me break mine. You owe me.’” </p><p>“Wait, but I’m at work.” He turns and checks the clock, and he only has about half an hour before his shift is up anyway. Well. Nobody ever passes by Coryell and besides, it’s kind of inhumane to staff this whole place with just the one eighteen-year-old. Right? </p><p>“I--” </p><p>“I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have to ask,” Clay says tentatively, the two of them sitting in an otherwise entirely empty Orange Julius. “Do you really think it was my fault?” </p><p>George looks up, deadpan, from where he’s setting up his new phone. He drags his notepad closer to him and starts scribbling out a message. He still holds himself carefully, but he looks better now than he did a week and a half ago--the bandages are off, the bruises fading into purple. </p><p>The day had gone mostly well, in a series of snapshots that Clay will probably obsess over later that night--begging off work, speeding to Wilbur’s place, walking around the mall in mostly silence until they found the one AT&amp;T store around town. Him making lame little jokes and comments that go answered only by side-eyed looks that Clay still doesn't understand, not when they come from George. </p><p>George is still writing. He’s written a lot, crossed out even more. Clay fidgets and waits until he slides the notepad back over the table. </p><p>
  <em>Not really? I guess I WAS pissed, but I definitely shouldn’t have listened to you. That’s on me. </em>
</p><p>“Oh.” Unconsciously, he relaxes. “Okay.” </p><p>George looks on, amused. <em>Did you think I was mad at you?</em></p><p>“You haven’t tried to bother me for a while, and I haven’t talked to Wilbur since you got back from the hospital, so. I assumed the worst.”</p><p><em>Dumbass. I was capital-H Healing the whole time. It was boring and terrible,</em> George writes. </p><p>“Shouldn’t have gotten on the skateboard, then,” Clay tries. He ignores the swoopy thing in his chest when George smiles. </p><p><em>Maybe not. Also, Wilbur’s been a busy busy boy, figuring out how to move back to England and such.</em> </p><p>“Huh. Yeah. When is he leaving again? Start of August?” George nods. “And then after that, you’re off too, to visit your parents.” </p><p>George nods again. It’s the middle of July now--Clay puts the dates together in order inside his head. </p><p>“That’s--so soon. Somehow, I thought that was farther away, you know?” </p><p><em>Time isn’t real.</em> </p><p>Clay finishes his Orange Julius and thinks.</p><p>Time isn’t real, but somehow it still passes, because they’re on the road (sweating like pigs because the air-con in Clay’s car has only blasted hot air since 2005 probably) when George suggests, <em>game night?</em></p><p> </p><p>The thing is, Clay’s always been surrounded by the familiar. He’s lived in Coryell County, Texas his whole life, in a house that his parents flipped in the 90s, and he’s had just about the same friends since elementary school. It feels like he’s been rotating between the same five places around town his entire life. Which, of course, he has. Not much happens in his life that he doesn’t expect. So he stops by Wilbur’s (a friend of a friend) house party one day last January and he doesn’t know the boy that answers the door. </p><p>George has always been the exception. </p><p>What Clay does know is this--in between everything else in the dying throes of his high school career, he wants so badly to get to know him. Just why it had taken seven months and a broken jaw for that to happen for real, Clay doesn’t know the answer to that either. </p><p> </p><p>When Alex sees George hobbling down Clay’s basement steps, he takes one look at the both of them and bursts into screaming laughter. And he laughs and laughs and laughs. But then he stands and helps George down the rest of the stairs. So whatever. Clay doesn’t pretend to understand. He shuffles awkwardly behind them with the bulk pack of Doritos tucked under his arm, balancing the bowl of dip that his mom handed him upstairs. Wilbur arrives with Tommy in tow, and the five of them fight over Clay’s controllers until George loses interest and lies over the whole couch like a Victorian invalid.  </p><p>“I’m gonna beat Clay this round,” Alex shouts in the middle of Coconut Mall. “I’ll do it for you, George, I’ll avenge you. He can’t walk around a free man after all the crimes he’s committed.” </p><p>“I didn’t break his jaw!” Clay protests for what feels like the millionth time. George shakes in silent laughter. </p><p>“Let’s all gang up on Clay,” Tommy suggests. “He deserves to come last.” </p><p>“What--that’s not how the game works, you fucking--” Clay cringes away from the hand coming to tickle the back of his neck, hunches forward in concentration.</p><p>Somebody says something absurd about needing checks on his power or something, and then, before Clay has the time at all to think of reacting, Wilbur’s shoulder-checking him, Tommy is digging his finger in-between his shoulder blades, Alex is yelling into his ear. At this point, all Clay can do is hang on for dear life as he tries--and ultimately fails--to hold onto his lead. </p><p>Anyway. The fatal blow isn’t any of this--it’s when Clay makes the mistake of glancing up at the couch just for a second, only to get caught up in the way George’s eyes squinch up when he smiles that big, or the way he curls in on himself from the force of his laughter. This is how Tommy wrenches the controller out of his hands and shoves it down the back of Alex’s jeans. </p><p>When he finally emerges from the fray he somehow hasn’t come last. Okay, he didn’t even make the podium. But he turns and sees George with his discarded controller, steering Princess Peach into 8th place, and it feels like he’s won the lottery. </p><p> </p><p>Later that night, the two of them sitting out on Clay’s front porch, listening to the crickets and waiting for Wilbur’s mom to come by with the car:</p><p>“Hey,” Clay says, nudging George with his shoulder. “I really am sorry. I hope you know that.”</p><p>George blinks, then writes, <em>It really wasn’t your fault. I was angry at the moment, but I’m not delusional. I probably should’ve known it wouldn’t have ended well.</em></p><p>“Yeah, but still.” Clay drops his hands into his lap. </p><p><em>What are you doing tomorrow?</em> George asks. </p><p>“Dunno. It’s my day off, so I’ll probably sleep in and do nothing.” </p><p>
  <em>Exciting. </em>
</p><p>“Hey, you asked.” Clay stretches his legs out over the steps. </p><p><em>You should come over</em>, George keeps his eyes on his notepad. <em>Play Halo with me or something. Idk. </em></p><p>“Oh,” Clay says. He bites his lip. “Yeah, why not? If you want me to.” </p><p>
  <em>I want you to.</em>
</p><p>“Okay.” He feels self-conscious in that glowing, fluttery way. It has something to do with the deceptive privacy of the blue nighttime, and the way that George looks equally at peace, backlit by the lights from inside the house. It feels like a moment that could last forever, but there’s a timer on this, as there is with everything else. </p><p>It ends when a pair of headlights appear from around the corner and Wilbur and Tommy pile out of the house. As they tug George to the car, he turns back to glance at Clay, who salutes teasingly. George raises an eyebrow, but he's smiling. </p><p> </p><p>Like two weeks later, Nick comes back from basketball camp a changed man. Visually? Exactly the same. Maybe a little bit more stubble, which Clay takes his time ragging on him for. But he steps out of the Greyhound station from Houston with a weirdly serene look on his face.</p><p>“Is this what upstate New York does to the brain?” Clay asks, poking at the binoculars looped around his neck. </p><p>Nick pulls a face. “Watch it. These are for birdwatching, and you wish you were me.” </p><p><em>You look like a pervert</em>, George texts to their group chat, rather unkindly. Clay pats him on his forearm. (At some point in the walk from the car to the bus terminal, George had looped their arms together and shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, but that’s not super important or anything.)</p><p>“They put him on a weaker painkiller prescription yesterday,” he says to Nick. </p><p><em>That has nothing to do with this.</em> It’s clearly a struggle for him to type out and send the message with one hand, but he makes no move to unlink their arms. Clay tries not to read too much into it. </p><p>Nick shrugs and says, “Sure it doesn’t.” He goes around the other side and links George’s free arm through his own. “I can just do this. Now what will you do, little man?” </p><p>George rolls his eyes, but he lets them frogmarch him to the car that way. </p><p> </p><p>Clay slams the car trunk closed over Nick’s duffel bag, and then he gets a text from George that just reads <em>eat shit and die</em>. </p><p>“Aw,” Clay teases as he gets into the driver’s seat. He tweaks the tip of George’s nose to great disdain. “You’re so cute when you’re grouchy.” </p><p>He wrinkles his nose and swats at Clay’s hand, only to catch it in his own, squeeze it, and press it firmly back to his side of the divider. Clay looks at George. George looks at Clay. Their hands trapped over one another in between them, neither of them willing to be the first one to give in. The bruise on George’s cheek is just the faintest tinge of yellow at this point. Just for something to do, Clay paints the blooming shape of it in his mind. </p><p>From the backseat, Nick complains, “I want to be <em>dead</em>.” </p><p>“Shut <em>up</em>,” Clay says, straightening again to start the car as George goes back to staring at his phone. </p><p>In the aftermath, his hand is damp and slightly cool. </p><p> </p><p>Early in the morning after some days, all six of them pile into the minivan, generously loaned to them for the day by Wilbur’s mom. (“Your car is such a cry for help, Clay,” Alex says, “We are <em>not</em> driving all the way to Burnet County in that.”) </p><p>“Do we have everything?” Wilbur calls from the driver's seat. They’ve all been banned from sitting shotgun because he’s too nervous of a driver for that. “Sunscreen and the rest?” </p><p>“I’m pretty sure we do,” Clay says. </p><p>“Pretty sure isn’t good enough,” Wilbur gripes. “Isn’t it supposed to rain today? What are we supposed to do if it <em>rains</em>? Also, somebody needs to stay with George during the day to make sure he doesn’t break his stupid face again.” </p><p>“Not it,” Nick and Alex say. They look at Clay, sitting in the middle seat of the back row. He covers his face with his hands.</p><p><em>You guys talk about me like I’m a child</em>, George writes, then shows to Clay, who reads it aloud dutifully as they finally peel out of the parking lot. </p><p>“You kind of are,” Wilbur says. “You can’t talk anymore, you can’t eat--” </p><p>“--not to mention how you can’t drive,” Nick says.</p><p>“You can’t drive?” Tommy says, affronted. “That’s super fucked up.” </p><p>
  <em>BECAUSE OF MY DISABILITY??</em>
</p><p>“Super fucked up for you to call being gay a disability,” Alex says gravely. </p><p>“Oh my fucking god,” Clay groans. He slumps back against the seat, wishes for a Red Bull, or maybe some pepper spray. “Do you guys ever stop?”</p><p>“Ooh, I’m so scared,” Alex says. “Is the Simp Extraordinaire, Mr. ‘I’m gonna do everything for George’ gonna--” </p><p>“I’m gonna kill you--” George wraps a hand around his arm before Clay can do anything awful, like strangle Alex, in fits of laughter with Nick and Tommy. With three people crammed into the backseat, there’s barely enough space for Clay to lunge so violently without knocking George and Tommy around as well. </p><p>Wilbur splutters. “You guys, sit down and be quiet, or I’m gonna drive us into a lamppost. I’ll do it right now.” </p><p>“Why are you the one driving, then? Shouldn’t it be one of us?” </p><p>Wilbur pauses, then he shrugs. </p><p>“Oh my god, you sappy bitch,” Tommy says. </p><p>Wilbur ignores him and they pull onto the main road. “Well, who knows how long until we can do this again?” </p><p>“Don’t remind me,” Nick says. “And none of you are gonna be nearby. What are we supposed to do next year? Rot?” </p><p>“Hey, it’ll be fine.” Clay scoots forward and pats Nick on the shoulder awkwardly. “I’m really gonna miss you all, you know? I know we don’t--” </p><p>The car lurches to a halt all of a sudden and in the trunk, their stuff goes flying. Clay just manages not to tumble out of his seat.</p><p>“What the hell,” Alex, who has not been as lucky, chokes as he clambers off of the car floor. </p><p>“Sorry!” Wilbur says. The car starts forward again, significantly slower this time. Clay glances over at George, who’s been laughing quietly to himself amid the chaos. </p><p>Clay shakes his head faux-disapprovingly, fighting back his own grin. George's eyes sparkle when their gazes meet. </p><p> </p><p>“Man,” Nick says, ducking under a wayward branch. “I’m getting flashbacks to middle school. Do you remember when your parents drove us all here? And it was so goddamn hot.” </p><p>“I just remember you passing out a whole lot,” Clay pants. He squints through the midday sunlight at the route on Apple Maps. “Do you know where we are?” </p><p>“I passed out <em>twice</em>. Because I was sick, and then I got heatstroke. I still have the scar from falling. See?” Nick points to the tiny little healed-over mark under his left eye. </p><p>“I’ll give you another one if you don’t help me navigate right now. Do you know where we are or not?” </p><p>Out of some misplaced sense of arrogance, the two of them had volunteered to lead the way, on account of having already visited Inks Lake State Park one weekend when they were thirteen and twelve. Further behind the trail, George and the rest amble along with all their stuff. </p><p>Nick looks around. “No.” </p><p>“What do you <em>mean</em>, ‘no’?”</p><p>“I don’t really know, dude. I spent the whole time passed out, remember?”<br/>
<br/>
“You are so--” Clay sighs and puts his phone away, fanning himself uselessly against the heat. “Okay, we know we should be going south, right? Let’s just keep heading that way and hope for the best.” </p><p>They keep walking for a little while. Nick usually has a lot to say--they're both loud like that. It’s why they fight all the goddamn time, and it’s why they love each other. But for now, he’s quiet.</p><p>Clay says, “Dallas isn’t <em>that</em> far away.” </p><p>“It’s farther than two doors down.” </p><p>“Still, though. It’s not the end of the world.” </p><p>“I know it isn’t,” Nick says, frowning, “But--” </p><p>“It’s gonna take more than college to kill this vibe. You know that, right?” Clay ruffles Nick’s hair and Nick swears. </p><p>“Of course I know that. Get away.” Then, he stops and stares off at something in the distance. “Wait--” </p><p>He jogs off the trail and disappears through the trees. Clay follows, curious, when his eye catches water glittering under the bright sun. And there it is--a quiet lagoon, blue water surrounded by craggy, sun-warmed rock. </p><p>“Devil’s Waterhole,” Nick says. “Right here, this whole time.” </p><p> </p><p>Once they get everything set up in an area suitable enough for George’s discerning tastes, Clay doesn’t waste his time. He strips off his sweat-sticky shirt and takes a running leap into the water. </p><p>Standing, Clay laughs when he realizes the water only barely reaches below his chest. Maybe a little shallower than he’d recalled. He shakes the water out of his hair like a dog. </p><p>“Okay, maybe don’t do what I did,” he calls up to where everybody else is still undressing. George is staring at him almost absently. He only looks away when Alex sneaks up and scares him. Mid-laugh, Clay watches with a vague sense of deja-vu as George stumbles, grabs onto Alex, and sends both of them hurtling into the lagoon, shrieking. </p><p>“Oh my god,” Clay says, wading over to them. “George! Are you okay?” He pulls George upright and hands his sunglasses back to him, pushing his dripping hair out of his own face.<br/>
<br/>
George’s cheeks are pink. He isn’t looking Clay in the eyes as he takes his sunglasses and slides them back on, but his fingers tickle Clay’s palm when they touch. </p><p>“Oh, I’m fine too, thanks for checking,” Alex says as he resurfaces. “George. You are <em>such</em> a bad person. What the hell was that?” He blinks the water out of his eyes and looks back and forth between the two of them. “Hey, you good?” </p><p>George flicks more water into Alex’s face and floats away on his back, basking in the sun. </p><p> </p><p>See--there are times with George where, just for a second, the puzzle pieces in Clay’s head arrange themselves in such a way that any uncertainty between them is cast aside for a few moments. Like right now, with George rummaging through the cooler, notepad tucked under his arm, wearing Clay’s discarded shirt. </p><p>“I don’t remember saying you could borrow this.” Clay tugs on the hem of his shirt, some old college merch that he’d gotten at a tour a while back. It hangs off of George’s slight shoulders. There’s a little damp patch at the back of his neck. Clay wants to put his tongue there, or something gross like that. </p><p>George turns around, catches him staring. He holds Clay’s gaze steadily (the pieces slot into place for just about a second), and just as something simmers up to boiling point he hands him a Diet Coke and a straw, crossing his arms expectantly. </p><p>“You’re joking,” Clay says, disbelieving. George shakes his head and Clay acquiesces, opens the can for him and sticks the straw in before handing it back over. “Happy?”</p><p>George shrugs, then traipses away to sit at the edge of the rock, legs dangling over the edge with his Diet Coke and his little hospital notepad. </p><p><em>Do you get the feeling that we’re just...killing time now?</em> </p><p>Clay feels, irrationally, like he’s been caught out. “Yeah, kind of. But also, like, is there anything that we’re supposed to be doing?”</p><p><em>I don’t know</em>, George writes. <em>I don’t know if I’ve been cooped up for too long or what. Or do you also feel--</em></p><p>He pauses to think. </p><p>Clay fills in the blanks, “Restless. Jittery.” Incredibly sure but profoundly nervous. George only nods and takes another sip of his Diet Coke. His sunglasses scrunch his damp hair back and Clay stares at the sunlight winking off the water just to distract himself. A little ways behind them is a tremendous splash as everybody else takes turns trying to do gainers off the highest ledge.</p><p>“Can I ask you a question?” George motions for him to go ahead. </p><p>“I mean,” Clay scratches the side of his head and looks over. It pains him to ask, but also, he has to know. “Why aren’t you leaving with Wilbur? Don’t you miss your parents?”</p><p>When George picks up his pen, he’s hesitant. <em>Why should I hurry? They’ll still be there whether I fly back on the first or the third week of August, right? </em></p><p>“That’s true.” </p><p><em>It’s stuff here that I’m not sure about.</em> He looks over and Clay can’t help but push. </p><p>“What’s up?” </p><p>
  <em>Have you ever wanted something so badly that you make yourself sick over it? Something that you think could be great, but you just. You keep second-guessing yourself. </em>
</p><p>He sets the notepad down again, leaning back on his hands, handwriting looping and scribbly and barely legible. Somehow Clay still catches his drift--when he looks up, George is staring back meaningfully. </p><p>“George,” Clay says lowly. He sits up straighter. “I just--I feel like I know literally nothing about anything, so I get it. But like, I need you to know that this--” He presses their hands together. “--is not something that either of us have to question.” </p><p>George looks at their linked hands, then out over the water at the rest of their friends. <em>Do you know why I got on that skateboard?</em></p><p>“Because you don’t think before you act?” Clay holds on tighter when George tries to detach their hands. “C’mon, tell me, tell me. I wanna know.” </p><p>
  <em>It was because I wanted you to find me as interesting as I found you. I think the worst thing I could ever be is boring to you. </em>
</p><p>“I could never,” Clay says hurriedly. “I mean--what I mean is I could never be bored of you. Anybody else here would call you an idiot for thinking so. That’s how dire it is.” </p><p><em>Don’t say that</em>, George writes. <em>Then I’ve really broken my jaw for no reason.</em></p><p>Clay laughs and lies back again. For now, he decides, cajoling George into doing the same, he won’t worry about it. </p><p> </p><p>The car is quiet on the drive back. Something about the mid-evening dark, the humid summer rain falling in slanting lines across the car windows, the damp warm freshwater smell of Inks Lake still clinging to their clothes, it sends the whole car into a slumber that is blissful for Clay, in the driver’s seat. He blinks the drowsiness out of his eyes and focuses on the road. The silence is broken only by the droning purr of the wheels on the highway. </p><p>As they reach Clay and Nick’s neighborhood, he glances to the passenger seat, where George is curled up with his head propped on one shoulder. His eyes are half-open, watching the streetlights woosh past. He’s still wearing Clay’s shirt. Lucky he’d thought to bring a spare, although not for this reason. </p><p>Clay stops at a red light and stares in wonderment as George reaches over and laces their hands together. There’s that deja vu. </p><p>“You’re left-handed, right?” </p><p>George nods. There’s something to it, Clay thinks. To have his dominant hand trapped in George’s own. He doesn’t know what the hell it means, but it feels terribly significant. </p><p>The light turns green and he lets go to steer them home. </p><p> </p><p>George gets the wires in his mouth removed on the first Monday of August, and of course they make a day of it, much to his chagrin and Wilbur’s mom’s (admittedly, pretty doubtful) approval. Nick even brings his new birdwatching binoculars so that the four of them can watch from afar. </p><p>“Ew,” Alex says, under his breath, as he leans forward and adjusts the binoculars to get a better look at George in the orthopedic chair. The nurse looks up from his mouth dubiously. </p><p>She asks, “Are you sure they should be in here--” </p><p>“--We’re brothers,” Wilbur interrupts. “All of us, we’re all related.” </p><p>Clay and Nick and Alex turn to nod in tandem.</p><p>The nurse looks at George, who shrugs wordlessly. In the background, Wilbur wrests the binoculars away from Alex (<em>“Stop hogging them, I want a go too.”</em>).</p><p> </p><p>“What I want to know is why,” George complains, voice scratchy with disuse. “You guys would never have done this if it was Nick.” </p><p>“Well, we’re not completely obsessed with Nick,” Alex declares, throwing an arm over George’s shoulders jovially. “How could we have missed the day that you got out of jaw prison?” </p><p>“I’m begging you not to call it that.” George moves his jaw experimentally. </p><p>“What would I have done without your dulcet tones in my life?” Clay asks, but something about the joke falls flat. He can hear it in his own voice, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wilbur pull a face. Only George smiles at it, and Clay hears the echoes of a half-written conversation in his head. </p><p>George mouths, <em>Later</em>. Maybe the world is full of promises.</p><p> </p><p>“This feels weird, still. It feels like I’m not supposed to be doing this.” </p><p>George still has this rough raspy thing going on in his voice and it’s all Clay can think about. “Uh-huh.” </p><p>“You’re talkative today.” </p><p>Clay smiles and settles a little more onto the hood of his car. After the rains, the heat’s softened into nicer weather. Lounging in the parking lot behind Shake Shack kind of weather. George hesitates for a moment, but he hops up next to Clay and sits cross-legged, before leaning carefully back against the windshield. </p><p>“Me and Nick used to do this a lot,” Clay says. “Like, back in junior year. We never had the gas money to go anywhere and the AC’s always been broken, so most of the time we would just--sit on it. Like this.” </p><p>“You’ve come so far,” George says sarcastically. </p><p>“Well, I'm sitting here with <em>you </em>now. I’m the luckiest guy in the whole world, as far as I’m concerned.” His ears warm when George laughs.</p><p>“You really meant it, huh? At Devil’s Waterhole.” </p><p>“Only if you did.” When he really looks, George’s skin is burnished in the golden hour, and Clay can only imagine that he is just about the same. For the first time since he’d knocked on that door in January, the puzzle pieces lock into place for good.</p><p>“Of course I did. You think I’d do all this for just anybody? Don’t condescend me.” </p><p>It’s that kind of weather, that deceptive warmth that makes everything look a little too hazy. The grime on the back of his ankle, the puddle of oil iridescent on the asphalt, George’s fingers drumming a beat into the tin-can shell of his car. It’s too warm to do much, but there’s just enough there for George’s face to find its way into the crook of Clay’s neck. </p><p>He doesn’t much mind the heat, he finds, when it’s just George’s quiet breath passing over his collarbone. </p><p> </p><p>He rides that high for the rest of the week, up until the end of his last day of work, when his manager shows up rather fortuitously, like a final send-off. Turns out, he looks normal. Forgettable. Balding on the top of his head, rosy in the cheeks from sun damage like every white guy above the age of 35 in the whole state. </p><p>“Where you headed after this, then?” </p><p>“UT Dallas, sir,” Clay says absently, keeping an eye on the clock in the corner of the shop. “I’ll be driving there by the end of the month.”</p><p>“Christ. That’s only ‘bout two weeks from now.” </p><p>Clay pauses in his stacking. He could’ve sworn he’d had the dates right in his head, but no, it really is only ‘bout two weeks from now. “Yeah. Crazy. Time flies, doesn’t it?” </p><p>“You nervous at all?” </p><p>“Hah. Kinda, to tell the truth.” </p><p>“Ah, don’t be,” his manager says lamely. And then he doesn’t say anything else. Clay tries not to laugh. </p><p> </p><p>“You would die if you met my manager,” Clay says the moment George opens Wilbur’s front door. </p><p>George pauses, then he says, “Hello to you.” </p><p>“Hi.” He kind of hates, kind of loves how his face automatically pulls into a smile. </p><p>“Hi,” It’s fine though, because George has the same dumb look on his face. “What was that about your manager?” </p><p>“Nothing important, only that I’ll never have to talk to him ever again, hopefully.” Clay locks his car and steps through the threshold, thinks about how his manager was smoking when he left. Maybe a bad idea near a gas station, but, oh well. “How’s Wilbur?” </p><p>“Oh yeah,” George says, “You know how he’s leaving tonight?” </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>Down the hall, Wilbur yells for something from his mom. George sighs. “He’s not packed. Like, at all.” </p><p>Clay shuts the door behind him. Reluctantly, he asks, “Should we help him?” </p><p>“Of course not, silly.” George elbows him lightly. “You need to make up an excuse to get <em>me</em> out of helping him.”</p><p>“Right,” Clay says. “Like what?” </p><p>“Oh my god. What if I broke <em>your</em> face this time?” </p><p>“I didn’t--” They’re cut off by Wilbur bellowing for George from upstairs. </p><p>They freeze. Then, in a split-second decision (what is it about George that makes his impulse control disappear like that?) Clay feels around behind him for the doorknob, pulls the front door open, and drags them both outside.</p><p>Sitting in Clay’s idling car, he and George look at each other and suddenly they’re in fits of laughter again. </p><p>“You’re awful. Demented.” Clay shakes his head. </p><p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about. This was literally all you,” George sniffs. </p><p><em>As if I could’ve done anything else</em>, Clay thinks as he shifts into drive. It’s a little too embarrassing to say out loud, even for him. But as he looks over and George’s self-satisfied little smile, he gets the sense that he already knows. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s Dallas like?” George mimes holding a microphone out to Clay’s face. “Tell me.”</p><p>“Uh,” Clay blinks and lifts his head to look up at George sat leaning against the foot of his bed in his darkened, air-conditioned room. He thinks about how he’s lying in front of him, shoulders only inches away from George’s bare shins. “I dunno. Hot? Crowded, I guess. I don’t remember a whole lot about it, to be honest.” </p><p>George hums and lets his hand rest palm-up on Clay’s sternum. “Well. You’ll tell me all about it once you get there. Right?” </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>“And I’ll do the same.” </p><p>“Of course.” He closes his eyes again. George’s hand is a comforting weight on his chest. </p><p>“No matter what happens?” </p><p>“Huh,” Clay says. “What could possibly happen?”<br/>
<br/>
George shrugs like he doesn’t know the words to this song. The hand curls into itself. He links it through his own as he sits up too fast and stares at George through the stars in his vision. Like this, in the cool darkness with sunlight still leaking through Clay’s shitty curtains and their knees knocking against each other, he can’t think of another place he’d rather be.</p><p>He cups the back of George’s neck in one hand and kisses him. </p><p>And like--he <em>knows</em> it doesn’t matter that much, that he’d wave George off in the coming weeks with just as strong of an ache in his heart even if all he’d got to keep with him were the pieces of crumpled notepaper and that hurried, looping scrawl. </p><p>George responds like he’d known all along that this was coming, tips his head to the side so that for an instant, they swallow each other whole. </p><p>He kisses him because he wants to. In this moment, enclosed in this bubble like their very own cryogenic chamber to freeze time in, there isn’t a world where he doesn’t want to. </p><p>“You’re one of the most exciting things to ever happen to me. Is that sad?” </p><p>“Only if it’s sad that I can say the same,” George says, face pleased, eyes bright and lips wet. “So, it’s not.”</p><p>“Perfect,” Clay says, then shifts closer when George snakes his arm to hang over his shoulder. “Nothing’s gonna happen to--this. Whatever this is. Nothing that really matters, anyway.” </p><p>“It better not,” George says forcefully. His fingers dig a little harder into the base of Clay’s neck. It makes him shiver as he ducks forward to press their mouths together again. Only, George’s phone chimes, again and again and again. He detaches and leans back to check, rolling his eyes. </p><p>“Wilbur is freaking out,” George says, just as Clay’s phone starts blowing up as well. “I guess we’ve been caught.” </p><p>Clay stares at Wilbur’s accusatory and increasingly frantic messages. “Should we head back, then?”<br/>
<br/>
George glances away from the fragments of sunlight by the windows. He says, “Yeah, sure,” but he makes no move to stand. </p><p>So neither does Clay, who puts his phone on silent and suggests, “Let’s stay, then. Just for another minute?” </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>trigger warnings for death-related humor:<br/>- the paragraph after 'George wrinkles his nose and swats at Clay's hand ...'<br/>- Following 'Wilbur chokes. "You guys, sit down and be quiet." ...'</p><p>further notes:<br/>- psst look at <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g55559-d109511-i19248551-Inks_Lake_State_Park-Burnet_Texas.html">this picture</a> of devil's waterhole...weep with sorrow that you can't be there...<br/>- a gainer flip is when you do a backflip while traveling forwards--dangerous....but fun<br/>- also, unrelated to the fic but as i was doing research on texas, i came across <a href="https://www.texasmonthly.com/news-politics/not-so-loving-county/">this insane article</a> from 1997 about the local politics in a county with a permanent population of 85 people. i thought it was a pretty interesting read! (here is a quote that made me laugh: <i> "I was twenty-one, with two babies, and I just couldn’t stand it; I cried practically every day for two years. But it’s home now,” Jones says cheerfully."</i>) </p><p>thank you so much for reading!! to anybody else in a bit of a transitional period rn: i believe in you and your ability to end up exactly where you were supposed to &lt;33 </p><p>come hang out with me on <a href="https://limerencewastaken.tumblr.com">tumblr</a>! also leave a comment if you enjoyed this please--they really make my day, and even if i forget to reply to them (which i am trying my best not to do...), each and every email notification i get puts a smile on my face!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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